


The Weight of Absence

by lily_briscoe



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_briscoe/pseuds/lily_briscoe
Summary: Patsy suffers a loss, and Delia guides her through her grief.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A tad cheesy, but bear with me. I just love these two.

**The Weight of Absence**

“Nonnatus House, midwife speaking.”

Patsy’s voice rang out clear and polished over the idle chit-chat of the dinner table. She was first on call after what seemed an interminable amount of time on district, and she found herself itching to get back to her mothers and babies.

But the voice on the other end of the line was not a herald of birth; it was one of death.

The smile leeched from her face as the caller announced himself a doctor at Westminster Hospital, seeking one Patience Mount.

“Yes, this is she,” she rasped, her throat arid and tight with fear as her hand dropped the pencil poised to write down a home address, opting instead for the solid support of the desk.

“I see,” she ground out through clenched teeth, swallowing the unwelcome lump forming in her throat.

Hollow words of sympathy echoed in her ears.

“Thank you. I’ll contact the attorney directly.”

The sound of the phone clicking back into its cradle seemed deafening, all her senses heightened, yet her full body numb as she slumped into the chair. She vaguely registered the clattering of plates being cleared, the nuns and nurses having finished their evening meal.

“I’ll be there in two ticks to help wash up,” a Welsh voice called in the direction of the sink, NHS-standard-issue lace-ups clacking toward her on the hardwood.

“Once more into the breach, then, Pats?”

Patsy stared vacantly at Delia’s shoes, fearing that the sight of another face – especially this one – would cause an unbidden release of all her pent-up emotions.

“Get it, Pats? Like a breech birth?” Delia prodded, smiling hopefully as she tried to catch the redhead’s eye. “Oi, Pats, I know I’m new at this, but you could at least laugh at my –”

The Welshwoman trailed off, sensing her lover’s distress, and immediately dropped to her knees, taking Patsy’s hands in hers.

The pale fingers made no response.

“Patsy, what’s wrong?”

The redhead’s fixed gaze on the floor did not waver.

“You’re scaring me, _cariad._ Please, tell me what’s troubling you.”

Delia released one of her hands, lifting it to tilt Patsy’s chin and meet her eyes.

As Patsy had feared, she broke.

The silent sobs wracked her body, as though the weight of pain were crushing her, and Delia could do nothing but take her in her arms. She rocked her lover back and forth as she would a child, telling her that she loved her, that she was allowed to cry, that she would ask nothing more of her but to hold her.

When Patsy remembered to breathe, her sobs became audible, and the spirited chatter mingled with the clink of cutlery fell silent. The other midwives made as if to rush to Patsy’s side, but Nurse Crane, upon noting Delia’s presence, held up a firm hand. Barbara and Trixie both nodded, soberly returning to their task.

Eventually, Patsy’s shuddering breaths became calmer, her hands releasing their tight grip on Delia’s uniform. In the times that she had suffered grief – her mother and sister, Delia’s accident – she’d had no one to reach out for – the first time because she’d been alone, and the second because she’d been alone in her feelings, in her knowledge of the true extent of what Delia meant to her.

But now she was in Delia’s arms, and that was a step toward hope.

She leaned back a bit from the brunette, wiping her tears with the back of her hand as she sniffled, gathering herself. Delia waited patiently, not pressing for any information she was unwilling to give. Through the haze of her jumbled emotions, Patsy found purchase in her love and gratitude for this woman, using it to find her voice.

“My father died.”

Patsy felt fresh tears welling in her eyes as she said the words, as though they had just now become imprinted on the fabric of reality. She looked up in frustration, willing them not to fall.

“That was the hospital. Cancer.” She swallowed hard. “He never told me.”

_Well, why would he?_ her mind supplied bitterly.

Her eyes and jaw both clenched. She couldn’t think that way.

Looking back down, she was surprised to find tears in her lover’s own eyes, to feel them on her neck as Delia gathered her in her arms again, saying nothing.

They remained like that for long, weighted moments, before they came apart, the brunette entwining their hands once more.

“What can I do?”

Patsy sighed. _Thank God for this woman. This woman who only thinks of others; who anticipates every need and gives so much more than she takes._

“There are procedures to be gone through,” she replied as steadily as possible. “The attorney, his estate, his company. And with my shifts, I –”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes squeezing tightly shut.

“I’ll speak to Sister Julienne,” the Welsh nurse told her, her tone tender but brooking no refusals. “You go upstairs, have a bath and an early night, and I’ll be in to hold you as soon as I’ve sorted things out.”

Patsy squeezed her lover’s hands in thanks, wondering how this woman could be so good to her, when a thought perturbed her.

“Trixie,” she whispered.

The brunette pursed her lips in thought.

“Best go to my room, then. If anyone asks, you want some time alone.”

Patsy nodded, thankful for the practical solution. She was usually the one to solve upsets and give orders, but she found she was grateful to not have the reins in hand this time, to be told where to go and what to do when she felt as unmoored as a boat gone out with the tide.

They both stood, Delia steadying Patsy as her boneless legs nearly buckled beneath her.

“I’ll just wait till the nuns are out of compline, arrange things with Sister Julienne, and then I’ll come straight to you,” Delia promised, her eyes and voice unwavering.

“All right,” Patsy quietly assented. “Thank you.”

She weakly held her arms out for a final embrace, breathing an “I love you” into Delia’s skin where her jaw met her neck.

“And I love you,” came the soft reply, a kiss to her temple following.

A hand came to cup Patsy’s cheek as another wove its fingers with hers, blue meeting blue.

“Always, _cariad._ ”

And then the hands slipped from her skin, and she willed her feet to climb the stairs as she heard Delia’s footsteps softly make their way toward the chapel.

***

Patsy slipped into Delia’s room following her managing act, ensconcing herself between the covers of the Welshwoman’s bed. She had let the bathwater catch the last of her tears, and though the time alone had been beneficial in some respects, there was nothing she wanted more than to feel Delia’s arms around her again. Her favorite well-worn set of pajamas was of no comfort to her now, and the lingering scent of her lover on the pillow just wasn’t enough.

After a few more minutes of reflective silence, the redhead heard the slightly sticky bolt of the door come free – a sound that never failed to conjure anxious memories of early-morning attempts to sneak out of the room without a peep – and saw her lover close it behind her as softly as possible.

“Hello, you,” the soft Welsh lilt greeted her, not a hint of pity or levity in the words – only love.

“Hello,” Patsy answered faintly, reaching a hand out to call Delia to bed. The midwife’s brow wrinkled as the brunette merely knelt beside it, rather than getting in, but her features softened as she felt Delia’s lips grace her knuckles.

“I don’t fancy wearing my uniform to sleep, Pats,” the Welsh nurse explained, reading her lover’s thoughts. Her slight grin at her own words soon faded. “I’ve apprised Sister Julienne of the situation, and she’s prepared to give you as much compassionate leave as you need,” she related. “I told her you would see her when you felt able, since you’re the best judge of how much time that might be, but she’s cancelled your shifts for the next two days as a starting point.”

Patsy nodded, pressing her lips to Delia’s hand in turn. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She felt a kiss pressed to her forehead, the words “of course, _cariad_ ” murmured into her skin, and the slipping of a hand from hers.

“I’ll just change into my nightdress and wash up, and then you’ll get a proper _cwtch._ ”

Patsy nodded again, her eyelids heavy but her body knowing sleep would be long in coming. She rested her eyes as she waited for Delia to return, dispelling faded memories that came perforce from some sepia-tinged corner of her mind.

He had always been distant, clinical; she’d gotten that from him. The war, her mother, Nancy – they had only served to turn him colder, to make the gulf far too broad to gap. The English aristocratic tradition of boarding school had been a natural step in enabling this, and soon tuition payments and the occasional clipped telegram had become the only tenuous threads that held the two of them together.

After training, when she had gained her own source of steady – albeit fairly meager – income, she’d done her best to leave the funds he provided untouched. As was the case with a talent for erecting nearly unscalable boundaries, stubborn pride was a trait fairly firmly embedded in Mount family genetics.

But some memories – they were so deeply buried that they played like a blurred, damaged film reel behind her eyes.

A warm, bemused smile over his newspaper on a Sunday morning as Nancy took a bizarre but dedicated interest in the softness of his slippers.

A proud, protective arm around her mother as he made a toast at the company Christmas party.

A look of surprise, then faint awe, as the advent of a scraped knee drew no tears from a six-year-old face framed by titian curls, the raw skin soon cleaned and dressed by naturally healing hands that would turn to nursing in ten or so years’ time. A quiet “Well done, Patience,” as he softly ran his thumb over the bandage.

But the sense of his absence ever loomed – a cloud that eclipsed the brighter shades of memory, leaving her feeling at once heavy and hollow.

A face thousands of miles away as she and her mother and sister were carted onto a ship, bound for the closest thing to Hell.

The perpetually closed door to his study during the rare holidays she spent at home, oaken and impenetrable.

The mechanical loops of dead, black ink on the dotted line of a check, done by rote, the name lost in a sea of shadows.

She had too much of her mother in her. Nancy, too. She knew that. He couldn’t bear it.

But typhoid had cost her three lives instead of two – the deepest ties of her blood – and that just wasn’t fair.

“Bastard,” she gritted into the pillow, her fingers digging into her palms through the sheets as tears threatened to squeeze past her tightly clenched eyelids. She’d promised herself she would cry no further, and so roughly rubbed them away with the heel of her hand.

But now he was truly, physically gone. How could the departure of an absence make her feel so empty?

The bolt drew back once more, and Patsy hadn’t the energy to hide her renewed distress from Delia.

The Welshwoman simply set down her things and pulled herself flush with Patsy, sheets cocooning the pair as they breathed each other in.

Patsy’s hold on her lover suddenly tightened, clinging to the brunette as fiercely as her arms would allow.

Delia inhaled sharply at first, but then gripped her love with equal ardor, prepared to wade through the rubble of crumbled walls.

Patsy pulled back slightly, one hand coming to hold the nape of Delia’s neck as the other kept its vice grip on her back, the redhead’s eyes staring piercingly into the blue ones before her.

“You’re all I have left, do you understand me?”

Her voice was hoarse, desperate.

“You’re the only thing I have. You’re everything, Delia.”

“Shh, shh.” Her lover’s voice soothed her as she felt kisses pressed to her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, and finally her lips.

She suddenly tried to escalate the kiss, her lips frantically seeking Delia’s, but the other woman pulled back, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Patsy, love, you’re hurting.” Delia’s eyes met hers imploringly. “Please, I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

The redhead’s eyes flashed, but softened at her lover’s compassion.

“Do you think I could ever regret making love to you?”

Delia’s breath hitched against her will.

She shook her head, then gathered herself.

“I want you to let yourself feel –”

“But that’s just it, Delia,” Patsy interjected. “Every minute I can’t touch you, I’m numb. I need to feel _you_ to feel.”

Conflict flickered in the brunette’s eyes.

“I told you I’d hold you as long as you wish, Pats. Whatever you need, I’ll give.”

“Then give me this,” Patsy pleaded, her eyes as desperate as her voice. “I need to touch you, Delia, and I need you to touch me, to ground me. Please, darling.”

The last endearment fell as a whisper, and Patsy saw the decision being made in Delia’s eyes.

She could not deny her now, and never would.

Hands soon shed clothes in favor of skin, and limbs and lips clung to each other with as quiet a fervor as possible.

Delia’s eyes hardly left her lover’s as she brought her higher and higher, and Patsy felt herself break layer by layer, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion, pleasure and grief consuming her in a cathartic firestorm that left her raw, but with no doubt that its ashes would soon be at her feet.

And this woman – this woman who would walk into fire if she asked her to, who held her as though she were something fragile yet strong, something littered with battle scars yet beautiful – she would lift her up.

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to hear what you think/if you have prompts. I adore this fandom.


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